


The Adventure Of The Excellent Witness (1887)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [63]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Codes & Ciphers, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, Italian Mafia, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Murder, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-05
Updated: 2017-05-05
Packaged: 2018-10-28 08:55:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10827972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: A letter that goes astray leads to a killing – yet the dead man manages to name his killer! And Watson has a perfectly controlled and rational reaction to some unwelcome news.





	The Adventure Of The Excellent Witness (1887)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theklynnsmith](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theklynnsmith/gifts).



> Mentioned elsewhere as 'the case where Sherlock solved a mystery by winding a dead man's watch'.

This was a most unusual case, and it was with some regret that I was unable to publish it at the time. Once again, the involvement of a lady – a completely innocent party, I must add – meant that I had to merely document the case, and wait for (ironically in this instance) the passage of time. Fortunately the lady's subsequent return to Italy and some scurrilous newspaper speculation around her daughter's marriage led to the lady writing to me and asking me to put the true facts of the case to the public – a case in which a dead man managed to bear witness against his own killer, and Sherlock solved a case by merely winding a watch. 

Or trying to wind it.

+~+~+

Number Twenty-Seven, Golden Hind Avenue was a fairly standard Victorian house in one of the better areas of Camberwell, just south of the City. There had lived in relative harmony the recently-married Mr. and Mrs. Martin Franklyn along with two lodgers, Mr. Julian Willis and Mr. Albert Wales. 

Until one of the four was murdered. Or, to be more exact, executed.

I learnt of this case from my fellow doctor, Hiram Bullivant, at the surgery, as he had been visiting a patient nearby at the time, and had stopped to offer his services to the police who, very wisely, decided that the closer to death that the body was examined, the better. He discussed the affair with myself and Peter Greenwood the morning after, just before we opened the surgery.

“It was all very sad”, he said, pulling at his long (and, I thought, rather pretentious) beard. “They had only been married three months, then Mrs. Franklyn comes home from a shopping expedition, and finds her husband lying dead right there in the living-room! The police suspect it may have been a contract killing by one of those infernal secret societies, probably an Italian job. Bloody Eye-ties!”

I smiled to myself. Though half-American himself, my fellow doctor was often more xenophobic than most Englishmen!

“Why do they think that?” Peter asked.

“There was some weird symbol on the floor”, he said. “Nearly stepped on the thing before the constable stopped me. Sort of like a percentage sign, but more ornate. And the shooting was execution-style, right in the middle of the forehead. Poor blighter probably had to stand there and see it coming.”

“Murder in Camberwell”, I sighed. “It is a rough area.”

“Golden Hind Avenue is one of the better parts”, Bullivant said. “I doubt that they will ever find the scum who did it. Odd, though....”

He stopped. We both looked at him.

“What is it?” I asked.

“I am just being stupid”, he said dismissively. “It was nothing really.”

“Tell us”, Peter insisted. He hesitated again, but gave in.

“I mentioned it to the coppers there”, he said, “and they looked at me as if I had lost the plot. Understandable, I suppose. But that living-room was the tidiest place that I have ever seen in my entire life! You know how day-to-day living means there's usually clutter of some sort or other around a place; papers, magazines, nick-knacks? Gertrude is always moaning about what a pig-sty our place is. This room was _spotless_ , as if it had just been professionally cleaned. And I don't mean by a maid, because they only employ a girl for a few hours each day, and she had been in, dusted, laid the fires and left. I mean really, professionally cleaned.”

+~+~+

I mentioned the case of the overly tidy room to Sherlock when I got home that evening, to a wonderful meal of bangers and mash. Mrs. Harvelle had excelled herself again, bless the woman! As I looked round our own main room, I was reminded just how right my colleague had been. Even allowing for Sherlock's haphazard (non-existent) approach to order, the room was pretty much a mess, with books and accoutrements all over the place. This, after all, was how most people lived.

But not, apparently, the Franklyns.

“I shall contact Henriksen in the morning, and see if he can obtain an introduction to the local sergeant”, Sherlock promised, sinking into his chair with a heavy sigh. He had just had an after-dinner bath, and smelled faintly of whatever bath salts he was currently favouring – lemon and lime, I thought.

“Problems?” I asked.

He fixed me with a look.

“Mrs. Masters finally caught me at home”, he said heavily. 

Oh.

“And your received her?” I asked, trying to keep my voice even. 

“I thought it better”, he said. “She seemed determined to persist in her efforts, so I felt that it was right and proper to tell her exactly where we stood in relation to each other.”

“I see”, I said, relaxing a little.

“So I am taking her out to dinner on Friday”, he said.

Years of withholding information from patients stood me in good stead at that moment in my life, and I managed to do little more than blink once or twice.

“You are bloody well not!” I yelled, rising to my feet in my fury and glaring at him with a look that should have incinerated him on the spot.

All right, perhaps a little more than blinking. Sherlock looked at me, apparently nonplussed at my reaction, before I saw that slight smile creasing the corner of his mouth.

“You were having me on!” I protested. He chuckled.

“Your face!” he laughed. “I thought that my doctor was going to need a doctor!”

I scowled (no, it was not a pout). He was mean to me!

+~+~+

The next morning I woke to find Sherlock had gone out early. There was however a box of my favourite (and very expensive) Turkish Delight on my chair, with a card stating 'Sorry'. I smiled at the consideration. 

Sherlock returned, and after a delicious breakfast we set out for Camberwell. Our guide to the scene of the crime was Constable Frederick Carnarvon, a fresh-faced fellow who was far too young-looking, ridiculously tall (did they grow constables in fertilizer these days?) but good-natured enough. Henriksen had warned us that, whilst Sergeant Auburn had no objection to Sherlock taking an interest in the case, he was not going to put himself out to help. Constable Carnarvon was there as he was the local bobby, and had also been the first one on the scene.

I could see immediately what my fellow doctor had meant about the living-room. Apart from the rolled-up rug, on which the red stain of the deceased was clearly visible, it was spotless. It was indeed far too tidy.

“I received a call from Mrs. Branch at Number Twenty-Nine next door”, the constable said. “She and her husband were visiting their sister in Chiswick all last week, and they arrived back to find the postman had left them a note saying there was a letter waiting there that needed to be signed for by a 'Mr. Wiles'. She guessed, correctly as it turned out, that someone had written the number either untidily or incorrectly, and that it was for one of the lodgers next door. She informed Mr. Franklyn, and as his bank is near the post office where it had been taken, he called and signed for it as the house owner.”

“I am surprised that the post office handed it over”, I said. I had had further dealings with our Baker Street branch of that organization, and to call them overly fussy would be like describing the Atlantic Ocean as moderately damp. They had made me feel like a criminal, and all that effort had only obtained for me a poorly-addressed bill that had not even been for me!

“Mr. Franklyn returned home that evening”, the constable continued. “At half-past five; we know the time because he called in on Mrs. Branch to thank her for telling him about the letter. She remembered that he seemed rather upset, though she thought that was because of the quarrel with his wife.”

“They did not get on?” Sherlock asked.

“He wanted to have children immediately, whilst she wanted to wait a couple of years”, he explained. “Otherwise, Mrs. Branch – I should not say it, but she is the sort to hold a glass to the wall to listen in – would surely know.”

I thought back to the 'bird-watcher' Miss Woolworth. People were much the same everywhere.

“Mr. Franklyn apologized for the mix-up”, the constable continued, “and said it was because the sender was foreign. They wrote one of them foreign sevens with a line through it, and the postman must have read it as a nine. Mrs. Franklyn was originally from foreign parts, you see.” 

Another insular Englishman, I thought.

“Mr. Wales was already home at this time, but Mr. Willis did not return until half an hour later, according to their statements”, the policeman said. “Mrs. Branch, who was not spying on them in any way, shape or form, confirms Mr. Willis' time of return. Mrs. Franklyn was attending a church event at the local homeless shelter, and did not return home until just after eight; she says that she heard the town clock striking the hour as she came down the road.”

“She did not take a cab?” I asked, surprised.

“She and a friend, Mrs. Gale, took a cab that dropped her off at the end of the road. Her friend lived at Number One, so it was easier for Mrs. Franklyn to get out with her rather than be driven a few dozen yards. Mrs. Gale confirmed her story. It was not dark yet, and this is a safe area of the town.”

At least it had been, I thought wryly.

“Mrs. Franklyn entered the house”, the constable continued, “and almost immediately found her husband lying dead in the living-room. He had been shot, a single bullet to the centre of the forehead.”

“An execution-style shooting”, Sherlock muttered. The policeman nodded.

“That, and the weird mark on the floor suggests as much”, he agreed. “One more thing. Mrs. Branch says that she saw Mr. Franklyn in the back garden not long after his return, possibly only five minutes after. She thought that he might be picking some flowers for his wife. She only mentioned it because she knew that he disliked gardening, it being his wife's passion.”

Sherlock nodded, and I noted that he was staring at the mantle-piece above the fire. It housed two rather ugly green-and-white decorated bottles, a brass bell, a cigarette-box and a glass vase containing some tall herbs.

“He picked herbs for his wife”, my friend observed. “That is unusual.”

“She had a herb garden out the back”, the constable explained. “I thought that might be why the fire was lit in summer, you see. There's a paint factory in the next street, and sometimes it smells a bit. Burning scented stuff makes the room smell better, so I'm told. Though I wonder why he displayed them like that; he could easily have put a few flowers in there too.”

Sherlock seemed to think about this for some time.

“Do we have the letter?” he asked.

“Yes”, the constable said. “It was in the shed, of all places. I suppose the victim must have taken it with him when he did his gardening, and left it there.”

That sounded odd, I thought. The constable handed us the letter and Sherlock unfolded it:

'Keep watching. If you leave, we leave. Near Henley, Old Iain is mean. Friday next, mate, or this Wednesday.  
Nick'

Well, it was obvious! Not!

“I would also like to see the body of the dead man”, Sherlock said, “if that is at all possible.”

Constable Carnarvon grinned.

“My sergeant doesn't think much of your work, sir”, he admitted, “but he knows that you always deal fairly with the police, wherever you go. We can see the late Mr. Franklyn now.”

+~+~+

Martin Franklyn had been a good-looking young man, I thought sadly, cut down in his prime. The constable shuffled his feet nervously behind us, and I decided there was little more to learn here before leading the way out of the room.

“Doctor Bullivant said that he thought something was off about the room, sir”, our host said as we trooped into a small room. “Too clean, he thought.”

“As if it had been ransacked by a thief with a tidiness fetish!” I muttered.

“That may not be too far from the truth”, Sherlock said mysteriously. “Tell us more about the four people who lived there, constable.”

The policeman flipped open his notebook.

“Mr. Martin Franklyn, twenty-seven, a junior manager at Pettigrew's Bank near St. Paul's”, he said. “His employers say that he was a highly conscientious worker, which was why he achieved promotion at so young an age. Last year he was selected to accompany the general manager, a Mr. Bruce, over to Italy, where the bank was looking to establish an office. It was whilst he was there that he met Miss Anna-Maria Fiori, who worked as a teller at the bank that Pettigrew's was looking to buy.”

“Did the deal go through?” Sherlock asked abruptly. The constable looked surprised at the interruption, but checked his notes.

“No”, he said eventually. “Mr. Franklyn paid an unannounced follow-up visit four months ago, and found certain irregularities on the Italian bank's balance sheets. That was also when he persuaded Miss Fiori to accept his hand in marriage, and they returned to England together; they had been in communication with each other since his first visit. They were married a month later. Their financial situation was subsequently rendered a little precarious as his house took some damage in the winter storms and required urgent repairs, which was why they decided to take in two lodgers.”

"I am surprised that he had a house for one so young", I observed.

"I thought that too", the constable said, "but there's no mystery there. His maternal uncle died and left a large sum of money to his sister's children, the other two of whom both died."

“Tell us about the lodgers”, Sherlock urged.

“Mr. Albert Wales moved in two and a half months ago”, the policeman said. “He is forty-eight, and walks with a limp due to a childhood injury that has never fully healed. He works as a clerk at Lloyd's Bank; it has dealings with Pettigrew's, which was how Mr. Franklyn met him. He has the larger of the two back rooms. He is incredibly timid. I swear that when I was questioning him about the murder, I thought at one point that he was going to faint!”

“Mr. Julian Willis moved in two weeks back. He is thirty-one, visiting London for a time on 'business'. Quite what that 'business' is, he declined to say, but his name has come up at the station in connection with a tobacco smuggling operation out of the docks. I had the impression – and I may be doing him an injustice here – that Mr. Willis was not overly surprised at his landlord's murder. He said that perhaps he upset the Cosy Noster whilst he was in Italy.”

I suppressed a smile at the constable's mangling of the Italian language.

“Is it possible to speak with Mrs. Franklyn?” Sherlock asked.

“Of course”, the constable said. “She did say to visit her anytime, and I am sure that she would not mind answering any questions that you may have.”

+~+~+

Mrs. Martin Franklyn had moved into her sister-in-law's house after the tragedy, and it was there, in a horrendous Gothic monstrosity in Brixton, that we met her. She answered our questions readily enough, but there seemed to be nothing new to be learnt from her. Until finally Sherlock asked her if there was anything she might care to add herself. She hesitated just fractionally before saying no, and both of us saw it. My friend gently pressed her to tell us.

“It is probably nothing”, she said, “but there was the matter of dear Martin's watch.”

“What about it?” Sherlock asked.

“He had two watches”, she explained. “The one he wore that I purchased for him in Italy, only a cheap thing, and a second much older one that he inherited from his grandfather, which was quite valuable. He always kept that one locked in his writing-desk, and never wore it in public, not even for special occasions. But when the constable handed me back the things that he had had on him when they took the... him away, it was his grandfather's watch that had been in his pocket.”

“In his pocket, but not on his chain?” Sherlock pressed.

“No, sir. I asked, and they said that it was loose. And there was no sign of my watch, either, although perhaps he put it somewhere.”

“Where did he keep the valuable watch normally?” Sherlock asked.

“In his writing-desk”, she explained. “Perhaps he swapped them over for some reason, and my one is in there now. I did not think to check.”

“I am surprised he did not keep something as valuable in a safer place”, I observed. She smiled at me.

“It is safer than you think”, she explained. “The centre-left draw is one of those that turns as it opens. Only when it is fully open and locked into position can you then press down the back and gain access to a small compartment. The watch was kept there.”

“Very clever”, Sherlock said, taking the key. “Thank you for your patience at such a difficult time, madam. We shall of course keep you fully apprised of our findings, should there be any, and I shall make sure that this is returned to you as soon as possible. Which reminds me, do you have the other items that were found on him?” he asked.

“They are still in the bag the policeman gave me”, she said, shuddering at the memory. “I left them at the house. I did not want.....”

“We fully understand”, he cut in. “Madam, I feel that it is important for us to see those items and that watch. May we have permission to enter your house and examine them?”

“Of course”, she said. 

She opened her reticule and extracted a small key, which she handed to my friend. We made our farewells and left.

+~+~+

I was somewhat surprised, if not a little worried, when Sherlock asked me if I had thought to bring my revolver (I had). Since he wanted to meet the two lodgers at the house and it was still early afternoon, we went to my favourite little restaurant in Trafalgar Square for a late lunch, and after spending some time in the National Gallery, returned to Camberwell just before six. Constable Carnarvon was in the kitchen talking to the two lodgers, and I thought that Sherlock was going to question them at once, but he seemed to change his mind after only a few seconds, and after a brief aside with the constable, shepherded me into the living-room.

We found Mr. Franklyn's secret compartment easily enough, although my hands were too large to reach the back, and even Sherlock had to stretch to activate the secret compartment. Inside was an obviously cheap pocket watch and a winding-key. I was about to reach forward when Sherlock stayed my hand.

“Observe”, he muttered.

I looked but I only saw a watch and a key. 

“What?” I asked.

“The dust”, he said, moving out of the light from the window.

I looked again, and then I saw it. The watch lay in one half of the tiny extra space, whilst the mark in the dust that it should have left lay in the other half. 

Sherlock took both items out and added them to our pile of the late Mr. Franklyn's belongings which, apart from the house keys (which Mrs. Franklyn had shown us and kept) and the other watch, consisted of the following:  
A wallet, containing one pound, nine shillings and sixpence farthing.  
A receipt for a tie, purchased from a store in London.  
A laundry bill, marked 'paid'.  
A set of three keys, one of which was the same as the writing-desk key.  
A handkerchief, initialed with an 'M'.  
A notepad, empty, with a small pencil.  
An old train ticket, return to the City, clipped.

“It is not much, for a human life”, I observed.

Sherlock nodded, and looked thoughtfully across at the hearth, where the dead man had been found. And then I saw the light come on in his eyes.

“What?” I demanded.

He shook his head, and picked up the watch and the winding-key on the key set from the dead man. Carefully, he tried to wind the watch. The key did not fit.

“But why?” I asked. “Unless that is the key to the other watch?”

I took the key from him, and tried it in the cheaper watch from the drawer. It fitted perfectly. I wound it a little, and then took it out, waiting for the watch to start up again.

Except that it did not. I stared at it in confusion. Sherlock smiled knowingly, and pulled out his pocket-knife, using it to gently lever the back of the newer watch open. Inside was a small, folded piece of paper. He extracted it, read it, and then leant over and whispered something to me.

I nodded.

+~+~+

We were back in the kitchen.

“Gentlemen, thank you for sparing me some of your precious time”, Sherlock smiled at the two lodgers. “I am pleased to tell you that the killer of Mr. Martin Franklyn will very soon be arrested.”

Mr. Wales blinked in surprise at the news, although Mr. Willis seemed to take it more calmly.

“Excellent!” the taller man beamed. “Who was it?”

Sherlock had walked round the table at this point, and was behind the taller lodger as he spoke. Without warning, he suddenly had a pair of handcuffs on the shocked man, just as I took out my gun and pointed it at him. The man stared, then chuckled.

“I think you will find that your English courts need something called evidence, Mr. Holmes”, he said silkily.

“I have it”, Sherlock smiled. “The very best evidence that there could possibly be. A note from the murdered man saying that you, Mr. Julian Willis, were about to kill him.”

Mr. Willis wrenched at the handcuffs, but they held firm.

“You lie!” he spat out. Sherlock took a chair and smiled at him.

“Mr. Franklyn knew that he was doomed from the moment he saw the letter that had gone astray”, he said. “I do not know what he did back in Italy, but what is important is that he upset someone there who had the power to have him killed. From the delay, I believe that the man ordering the killing could not be sure of Mr. Franklyn's 'guilt' in the matter until a few weeks ago, when he arranged for you to become a lodger here.”

“What did the letter mean?” the constable asked. “It made no sense.”

“It would have done to someone expecting it”, Sherlock explained. “Take the first letter of ever other word, and you form the short but explicit message 'kill him now'.”

Our captive wrenched at his cuffs, but they held firm. I held my gun steady, and he glowered at me. 

“Once you were installed, the plan was for you to execute your target upon receipt of that confirmation”, Sherlock continued. “But untidy writing caused the letter ordering you to strike to go astray, and the machinations of Providence meant that it chanced to fall into the hands of Mr. Franklyn. He suspected that you were the killer, as he knew for a fact that Mr. Wales here had never left England, whilst the purpose of your stay in London is somewhat mysterious. He also knew when he saw that letter that his time in this world was short. His only thought was to make sure that his killer – you - paid for your crime.”

“Of course, he has a problem. If nothing happens, then there will be a second letter ordering you to kill him; indeed, one may already be on the way, since the man ordering the killing will no doubt be puzzled as to the delay. But if Mr. Franklyn tries to leave any sort of message indicating your guilt, he knows that you will find it. So what does he do? He goes gardening.”

“What?” Constable Carnarvon exclaimed. Sherlock smiled.

“That was the first clue”, he said. “The herbs in the vase looked like ordinary herbs to our killer here, but they are in fact thyme - an indication as to where Mr. Franklyn planned to leave his letter accusing you, Mr. Willis. He then swaps over the two watches – but not the winding-keys – and places the accusatory note in the mechanism of the hidden, cheaper watch. He hopes, correctly as it turned out, that it might be noted that he wore 'the wrong watch'. He then locks the cheaper watch with the wrong winding-key in his writing-desk, deliberately moving it across so as to leave a dust mark, which will further incite suspicion if spotted. Finally he copies out the letter and leaves the copy in the shed, then sets the original for you to find.”

“You find the letter, and Mr. Martin Franklyn meets his end calmly. It is then you make your other mistake. Fearing that he may have been forewarned, you search both him and the room thoroughly. You were wise enough to leave on his person the detritus most men carry around with them, but in searching the room you make a point of replacing everything where it should be, and dusting away any prints. The attending doctor was right when he said the room felt almost too clean. You checked your victim's watch thoroughly, but did not find anything – for the letter accusing you was folded into the back of his cheaper watch, hidden in his secret compartment. 

The cuffed man snarled at him. Sherlock produced the folded piece of paper that he had extracted from the watch and read it. 

“'Julian Willis is about to shoot me. Signed, Martin Franklyn.' You were quite correct, sir, English courts do, quite rightly, demand a high level of proof before they dispatch someone to the gallows. But I rather think that a signed note from the victim might just meet those high standards.”

_Postscriptum: Perhaps predictably, Mr. Willis did not make it to the gallows. Whilst being held in prison before his trial, he was stabbed to death by another inmate in an apparently motiveless attack; his 'employers' had obviously decided that they dare not risk his talking in an effort to save his life. Thus those who live by the sword so often die by it._

+~+~+

In our next case, Sherlock once again demonstrated once more that he was an emissary of justice, and not necessarily one of the law.


End file.
